Chapter 11: When Mountains Collapse and People Flee

Two ruffians lay sprawled on the ground, while the last one stood there, grinning viciously. “Kneel before me now!” he demanded.

Zhao Sanfu was collapsed on the ground, his fate uncertain. Yang Xuan crouched beside him and checked his pulse, finding it stable—relief washed over his heart.

The remaining ruffian strode forward, feeling slighted by the youth’s indifference. Under the eyes of the gathering crowd, shame burned across his face. He knew only a savage beating of this boy would restore his dignity—and perhaps a little plundering to pay for his companions’ medical bills.

He raised his foot and kicked with all his might.

The onlookers gasped. Yang Xuan’s scalp tingled; he darted nimbly to the side, not forgetting to drag Zhao Sanfu out of harm’s way.

“Run, quickly!” someone in the crowd shouted.

Now everyone could see it clearly—this youth was no more than a simple country boy. The underworld in Chang’an was divided into two types: the ruffians, steeped in wickedness, and the knights-errant, whose very title carried a heroic air.

This young man had provoked the ruffians; it was inevitable that he would be bullied in the future. A voice in the crowd cursed, “Don’t push people too far! Report this to the authorities—let the Golden Guards come!”

The Golden Guards were in charge of order, but the ruffian only sneered and spat, “I’ll see you dead yet!”

Yang Xuan was taken aback. “Aren’t they the authorities?” he asked.

“They’re just ruffians,” someone explained.

The crowd relaxed, some even smiling with relief.

“Does he want to become a ruffian himself?” a woman asked in disappointment. “Why else would he be happy?”

A country boy new to Chang’an, unable to find honest work, still had to make a living. Joining the ruffians meant no labor, and if he followed a promising leader, life could be comfortable.

Yang Xuan halted. Just as the ruffian reached to grab his collar, Yang Xuan struck.

Bang!

The punch landed squarely on the man’s face, and blood sprayed before the crowd’s eyes. The ruffian clutched his face, but Yang Xuan’s second punch drove into his soft belly.

“Ugh!”

Doubling over, the ruffian was met with Yang Xuan’s knee.

Bang!

The world fell silent.

Yang Xuan hoisted up Zhao Sanfu and made his way toward the ward. The crowd silently opened a path.

Why this silence?

It was Yang Xuan’s first day in Chang’an. He did not know that ordinary folk avoided ruffians at all costs and endured what they must. Only fools or the fearless dared confront and beat them so ruthlessly.

The woman followed and whispered, “Young man, these ruffians have many allies. Beware their vengeance.”

In truth, ordinary people did not truly fear the ruffians; what they dreaded was endless retaliation. If you relied on the Golden Guards for protection, you might not even know how you met your end.

A chill gripped Yang Xuan’s heart. By then, Zhao Sanfu had regained consciousness. He shrugged off Yang Xuan’s support and forced a smile. “Don’t worry, I’m here.”

“Thank you so much,” Yang Xuan said earnestly. “But…”

His gratitude was sincere, yet suspicion lingered in his eyes. Zhao Sanfu’s imposing presence earlier had vanished with a single blow. If the ruffians returned for revenge, Yang Xuan doubted he could withstand it.

Catching the look, Zhao Sanfu coughed. “I was just distracted before.”

Distracted—lost in thought.

Yang Xuan glanced at him with pity. “There’s an old doctor back home who says people who often space out usually have something wrong with their heads.” The old doctor, a notorious drunk, claimed to be the world’s greatest healer but could not cure his own foul mouth.

Zhao Sanfu’s eyelid twitched. He regarded the youth thoughtfully—was this a veiled jab? If so, the boy was hardly simple, but sharp.

Yang Xuan’s gaze was earnest, tinged with worry—clearly concerned for his “condition.”

Zhao Sanfu forced a laugh. “I was only trying to recall where I’d seen those ruffians before.”

“You’ve seen them before?” Yang Xuan pressed. “Do you know where their lair is?”

The word “lair” made Zhao Sanfu pause, remembering his own turbulent past. “That I do not.”

A lie always begets more lies. Along the way, Zhao Sanfu, beset by Yang Xuan’s concern, felt utterly frazzled and wished only to return to the northern frontier and battle the Liao invaders.

Yang Lue had arranged generous lodgings for him.

“This area is called Chenqu,” Zhao Sanfu explained, having made inquiries. “See that house in the middle? That’s the residence of Chen Yongding, a Master of Revenue—hence the name Chenqu.”

He expected the youth to be in awe, but Yang Xuan frowned. “Does a Master of Revenue earn such a high salary?”

As a “stake” for the Mirror Platform, Zhao Sanfu knew full well that Chen Yongding’s stipend would never cover such a mansion. Yet the emperor turned a blind eye to such corruption, unless he wished to make an example or the man had fallen from favor.

They finally reached the innermost house in Chenqu. Finding the main gate locked, Yang Xuan praised, “How considerate.”

Zhao Sanfu stepped forward, gave the lock a tug, and it popped open.

Yang Xuan sniffed, making excuses for Yang Lue. “Locks are expensive.”

Zhao Sanfu nodded and pushed open the gate.

Bang!

One of the doors fell off its hinges.

Yang Xuan approached slowly. Seeing the weeds in the courtyard rise to his waist, he hurried to explain, “My relative must have gone traveling.”

Zhao Sanfu wiped the dust from his face. “It’s desolate here.”

“It’s perfect,” Yang Xuan said joyfully, “just like the mountains back home.”

And so, they set about cleaning.

In the northern frontier, Zhao Sanfu had been the most skilled scout. Living on the edge of a knife, who cared about their quarters? Sometimes the place wasn’t cleaned for a year, and the bedding lasted from the first day to the last.

He was ill-suited for such chores, but since he wished to get closer to Yang Xuan, he could not slack. As he worked, he stole glances at the youth.

The boy was in high spirits, darting here and there, hands moving even faster. If he found a piece of furniture still usable, he would cry out in delight and turn to beam at Zhao Sanfu.

Boy, that thing is broken!

Zhao Sanfu thought he must be mistaken. The Wang family held such lofty status—how could they treat a genuine country boy with such kindness? And the noble Miss Wang Xian’er would never send a maid to deliver a message.

He must have been seeing things. He touched the lump on his forehead, feeling dazed.

“Are you ill?” Yang Xuan asked with concern. The so-called “world’s greatest healer” had said: those with something wrong in their heads always claim nothing is wrong.

Zhao Sanfu shook his head. “I’m fine.”

By dusk, the little courtyard had finally taken shape.

“My treat!” Yang Xuan declared.

He had never treated anyone before. Whenever he watched the villagers host guests, he would squat nearby, wondering when he might openly spend his own secret savings.

Zhao Sanfu replied coolly, “Do you have money?”

The boy’s clothes were patched and threadbare—would the treat be nothing but dry biscuits?

Yang Xuan nodded. “I have money.”

Zhao Sanfu, unaware of the boy’s pride, offered cautiously, “If it’s not enough, I’ll cover it.”

“It’s enough!”

They found a tavern in the ward. Yang Xuan entered with an air of composure. “Bring us a small jar of wine, three vegetable dishes—and do you have mutton? Roast it, please.”

Though it pained him, he quickly reminded himself the treat was deserved; Zhao Sanfu had helped him greatly.

The waiter asked, “Would you prefer flatbread or noodles?”

Staple food!

Zhao Sanfu was about to choose noodles when Yang Xuan patted his little bundle. “No need, I’ve brought my own.”

They sat, and the food and wine soon arrived. Zhao Sanfu glanced at the bundle as Yang Xuan opened it, taking out a stack of dry biscuits.

As Zhao Sanfu left Yongning Ward, he could not help but suck his teeth. Two shadows flitted by—his subordinates.

The three of them left, one behind the other.

“Zhao Stake,” one subordinate asked, noticing his pained expression and the sheen on his forehead, “toothache?”

Zhao Sanfu sighed, “Those dry biscuits were hard as iron—nearly broke my teeth.”

The subordinate, walking a step behind, whispered, “Should we keep an eye on that boy? If he gets up to any mischief, should we stop him?”

With this, a cold killing intent hung in the air.

Zhao Sanfu shook his head. He remembered the way the boy had used the last scrap of vegetable broth to mop up his dry biscuit and shook his head again. “No need. By the way, what news from court today?”

This lowly “stake” worried for the country, though his men were long used to it. “There’s turmoil behind the scenes. Yan Cheng, a Master of the Secretariat, advised His Majesty today, saying that for years the emperor has favored the powerful, granting countless official posts to their sons, which has cost the treasury dearly. Some of these privileged youths are unfit to govern and have harmed the state…”

Zhao Sanfu stopped and praised him. “Well said, Yan Cheng. These are words I would have spoken.”

His subordinate thought, You would have said them—but you’ll never set foot in court, and even if you did, you’d never get the chance to speak.

Turning back, the subordinate noticed the lump on Zhao Sanfu’s forehead and was startled. Since the man wasn’t married, had he been caught in a romantic escapade gone wrong?

Zhao Sanfu narrowed his eyes at the imperial city looming ahead, its massive silhouette under the moonlight like a slumbering beast.

He sneered, “Those nobles care only for their own glory and wealth. They care nothing for the Tang dynasty. The more men like that, the weaker our nation grows.”

His subordinate dared not reply, though he found Zhao Sanfu’s ideals laughable. How could a mere “stake” meddle in or influence state affairs?

Zhao Sanfu stood beneath the moon, his voice as cold and clear as the silvery light. “I, too, wish I could live as carefree as that boy—but I never can.”

Yang Xuan was not entirely carefree; he simply had a magnanimous heart. In those years of hardship with the Yang family, he would sometimes murmur Yang Lue’s name, hoping for a hero to descend from the heavens and rescue him from despair. But he waited in vain; neither Yang Lue nor any hero arrived. After that, he understood a simple truth:

“Lean on a mountain, and it crumbles; lean on people, and they leave.”

Yang Xuan boiled water and scrubbed himself clean, then washed his clothes. Lying on a bed of dry straw with his hands behind his head, he could not help but remember the years in Little River Village.

“No more thinking of that,” he said, rising from bed. He stood in the middle of the room, closed his eyes, and turned inward.

As he activated his inner practice, a gentle warmth spread through his body, soothing and pleasant. Gradually, he entered a meditative state, drawing streams of energy from all directions, which seeped into him through his pores.

At first, the energy was cool, but after a circuit through his meridians, it became as comforting as warm water, nourishing him throughout. Countless streams of energy flowed through his meridians, finally gathering in his dantian.

Yang Xuan brought his hands together, stopping just before they touched, then pulled them apart.

Boom!

A suction force burst between his hands, the air splitting with a loud crack. Energies spilled forth, and a wind whipped up inside the room.

Yang Xuan opened his eyes, which now gleamed with light—

Like lightning in the darkness.

…

Vote for me… ah, ah, ah!